108 fountains
01-17-2014, 04:10 PM
Hello everybody. This is just my third posting. I've written about 20 short stories in the past year or so. (I've not published anything yet, but then I haven't tried very hard yet either.) Lately have been experimenting with different forms. I'm working on one story now that tries to combine prose with iambic pentameter, and was curious to hear what people think of the idea. To keep this posting short, I'll paste here the opening two paragraphs, the first part of the converstaion between the Cow and the Mule, and the final couple of paragraphs. I would appreciate any comments at all. Thanks.
The Cow, the Mule, and the Owl
Violet, golden and maroon wildflowers swayed in the dry afternoon breeze. The shadowy green copse wood stood sentinel on the far side of the meadow. A solitary linden tree, with straight, sturdy, corrugated, burnt umber trunk, merrily diverging branches, and smiling heart-shaped leaves graced the grassy green knoll. Underneath, lethargic, submissive and motionless, except for his twitching shoulder muscles and his tail in occasional motion to ward of the blue-bottle flies, and with head bent low to the ground in a natural and perpetual expression of humility, stood Yeoman the mule, grazing lazily after his hard day’s labor on the Zuckerman farm.
Yeoman would be the first to admit that he was not a pretty mule; in fact, he was quite an ugly mule. His ears were long and stuck out from his head almost horizontally, resembling wings of a sort. His eyes, though narrow and slanted, tended to bulge in a perpetual expression of surprise at whatever object he fixed his gaze upon. His mouth was sort of pie-shaped, and gray whiskers hung like so many wires from his nether lip. His nose was too much wide – with an expanse of leather between the two nostrils that bespoke of emptiness and lonesomeness. When he breathed, the wind rushed in and out of his nostrils with an involuntary rasping, wheezing, sound. Yeoman generally eschewed company. He was content to stand still, tranquil and placid, under the linden tree when his day’s work was done and remain in a dreamy, meditative state until the rumble in his stomach told him it was time for supper. Following supper, usually a meal of timothy hay, but occasionally a treat of alfalfa and beet pulp, he was content to stand in his solitary stall and let his musings meander where they may until he was reminded by the winking of the stars that it was time to retire for the night.
..........
Yeoman meandered in his stultifying way over to the wooden rail fence. Mirabelle waited, her dark brown eyes beaming more brightly than usual.
“Good morrow, Mirabelle,” said Yeoman.
“Good morrow, Yeoman,” Mirabelle replied.
“Marry, how fares my noble lady?”
“In sooth, I fare well, for here is cheer enough.
The sky today is clear and cobalt blue
And the prospects for the morrow, good sir,
Foreshadow fortune flushed with expectations new.”
“By my troth, I would express such sentiments indeed
If the merry world shed cheer on chary steeds
But it is my place, my lady fair, in troth,
To bear the yoke of toil and ne’er look up
At sunny skies or sup on oats or rye,
But alas, to view creation’s tender bliss
Through eyes with want of ecstasy
And lips with want of kiss.”
“Sorry am I to hear such heartfelt misery,
Dear Yeoman. Yet methinks the cloud of listlessness
That o’ershadows thy heart is but a wisp
Of melancholy easily dispersed by breath of air
If the air breathed is fresh and breathed with breath withal.”
“I prithee, speak not to me of expiration
Nor engage me in thoughts of grand expectations
For verily such thoughts as these needs must expire
‘Ere Yeoman stops to lay aside his yoke,
Procure a respite, or raise his head higher.”
..........
Yeoman watched as Mirabelle, smiling and fluttering her eyelashes through the iron bars of her wagon-crate behind Farmer Zuckerman’s truck in farewell to her barnyard companions, rode down the gentle, sloping drive that led through the green fields to the road that would take her into town. She called to them,
“Adieu! Adieu, my friends! And so, adieu!
I go forth happy, hearty, hale and new
With cares and trepidation cast away
And expectations joyful on display.
Adieu! I yield ye merry friends adieu!”
The other animals – the cattle, the geese and the drakes and the hens, the pigs, the old gray tomcat, and even the wild rabbits – waved and shouted, quacked, clucked and lowed with pride and admiration that one of their own, their very own Mirabelle, was going to town to win fame and fortune. Only Yeoman, with a mixture of melancholy and resignation, turned away and shook his head. He beheld the cheerless days that lie ahead and the certain fate of all his toil and stead. He meekly took a step and felt the yoke pull hard upon his back. His spirit broken, listless heart, his body tired and sore, from woe and hence he would forever more
Aspire to nought but live days one by one,
Anticipate the hour his work be done,
Content at last with meager meal be fed,
And rest with weary bones upon his bed.
The Cow, the Mule, and the Owl
Violet, golden and maroon wildflowers swayed in the dry afternoon breeze. The shadowy green copse wood stood sentinel on the far side of the meadow. A solitary linden tree, with straight, sturdy, corrugated, burnt umber trunk, merrily diverging branches, and smiling heart-shaped leaves graced the grassy green knoll. Underneath, lethargic, submissive and motionless, except for his twitching shoulder muscles and his tail in occasional motion to ward of the blue-bottle flies, and with head bent low to the ground in a natural and perpetual expression of humility, stood Yeoman the mule, grazing lazily after his hard day’s labor on the Zuckerman farm.
Yeoman would be the first to admit that he was not a pretty mule; in fact, he was quite an ugly mule. His ears were long and stuck out from his head almost horizontally, resembling wings of a sort. His eyes, though narrow and slanted, tended to bulge in a perpetual expression of surprise at whatever object he fixed his gaze upon. His mouth was sort of pie-shaped, and gray whiskers hung like so many wires from his nether lip. His nose was too much wide – with an expanse of leather between the two nostrils that bespoke of emptiness and lonesomeness. When he breathed, the wind rushed in and out of his nostrils with an involuntary rasping, wheezing, sound. Yeoman generally eschewed company. He was content to stand still, tranquil and placid, under the linden tree when his day’s work was done and remain in a dreamy, meditative state until the rumble in his stomach told him it was time for supper. Following supper, usually a meal of timothy hay, but occasionally a treat of alfalfa and beet pulp, he was content to stand in his solitary stall and let his musings meander where they may until he was reminded by the winking of the stars that it was time to retire for the night.
..........
Yeoman meandered in his stultifying way over to the wooden rail fence. Mirabelle waited, her dark brown eyes beaming more brightly than usual.
“Good morrow, Mirabelle,” said Yeoman.
“Good morrow, Yeoman,” Mirabelle replied.
“Marry, how fares my noble lady?”
“In sooth, I fare well, for here is cheer enough.
The sky today is clear and cobalt blue
And the prospects for the morrow, good sir,
Foreshadow fortune flushed with expectations new.”
“By my troth, I would express such sentiments indeed
If the merry world shed cheer on chary steeds
But it is my place, my lady fair, in troth,
To bear the yoke of toil and ne’er look up
At sunny skies or sup on oats or rye,
But alas, to view creation’s tender bliss
Through eyes with want of ecstasy
And lips with want of kiss.”
“Sorry am I to hear such heartfelt misery,
Dear Yeoman. Yet methinks the cloud of listlessness
That o’ershadows thy heart is but a wisp
Of melancholy easily dispersed by breath of air
If the air breathed is fresh and breathed with breath withal.”
“I prithee, speak not to me of expiration
Nor engage me in thoughts of grand expectations
For verily such thoughts as these needs must expire
‘Ere Yeoman stops to lay aside his yoke,
Procure a respite, or raise his head higher.”
..........
Yeoman watched as Mirabelle, smiling and fluttering her eyelashes through the iron bars of her wagon-crate behind Farmer Zuckerman’s truck in farewell to her barnyard companions, rode down the gentle, sloping drive that led through the green fields to the road that would take her into town. She called to them,
“Adieu! Adieu, my friends! And so, adieu!
I go forth happy, hearty, hale and new
With cares and trepidation cast away
And expectations joyful on display.
Adieu! I yield ye merry friends adieu!”
The other animals – the cattle, the geese and the drakes and the hens, the pigs, the old gray tomcat, and even the wild rabbits – waved and shouted, quacked, clucked and lowed with pride and admiration that one of their own, their very own Mirabelle, was going to town to win fame and fortune. Only Yeoman, with a mixture of melancholy and resignation, turned away and shook his head. He beheld the cheerless days that lie ahead and the certain fate of all his toil and stead. He meekly took a step and felt the yoke pull hard upon his back. His spirit broken, listless heart, his body tired and sore, from woe and hence he would forever more
Aspire to nought but live days one by one,
Anticipate the hour his work be done,
Content at last with meager meal be fed,
And rest with weary bones upon his bed.